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Miller rolls his eyes instantly. “Phyllis. She always fancied herself some high-society type; never quite made it stick. I wouldn’t be surprised if she claimed something happened with George just to elevate her own status. Unfortunately, he never told me about any other affair or any other children. My intuition tells me it’s not true, but if he’s throwing around legal jargon, it may be worth continuing to look into.”

“Any idea where to find her?” I press.

Miller snorts softly, then opens a drawer, fishing out a worn notepad and pen. He scribbles an address and tears the page free. “Here. She lives outside the main part of town. Stays to herself, mostly. But be careful. While she is technically a local, that boy of hers is not. He’s come and gone for years. Something is off about him.”

I take the note and slip it into my pocket. “Thanks, Chief Miller. I appreciate your honesty. And… thanks for the letter to begin with. My wife and I have gone through a lot the past few years. We really needed a win. This might just be that.”

Miller meets my gaze, and for a second, I see a hint of genuine concern. “Nate,” he says quietly. “This place—Mount Dora—looks quaint, but there’s a lot of tragedy behind the pretty facades. And Hawthorn Manor… Let’s just say if you’re going to make it your home, be prepared for ghosts. Not just the metaphorical kind.”

A chill prickles my arms, and I’m not sure if it’s from the air conditioning or his warning. But I force a tight smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I stand, shaking his hand briefly, and head for the door. As I step back into the hallway, the scent of musty paper and fluorescent hum returns. My mind is racing. George, at least according to Chief Miller, is my biological father who abandoned me, yes, but also tried to keep tabs on me even after all the time. There’s Patrick, who might be my half-brother, but again, according to Miller, is probably not.

And looming over it all is that manor—my chance at a new life with Margot. A new life already built on half-truths, secrets, and the shadow of a man I never knew.

I push open the front door of the station. Outside, the air is thick with humidity, and the sky threatens another downpour. As I walk toward my car, Miller’s words echo in my head: Be prepared for ghosts.

I can’t help wondering if I’m about to come face-to-face with them—and whether I’m truly ready for the truth about the man I believed to have been my father.

50

Ipull my car onto the cracked shoulder of the two-lane road, the old engine ticking in the afternoon heat. The address from Chief Miller led me here—a faded, sagging house on the outskirts of Mount Dora. Its shutters hang askew, and the paint is so peeled it’s almost colorless. A single, gnarled oak stands in the yard, its branches creaking in the breeze.

For a long time, I just watch from behind my steering wheel, waiting. I don’t know for certain if Patrick currently lives here, but everything I’ve gleaned suggests he does. If he is here, I can’t just stroll up and knock on the door. I’m not eager for a direct confrontation until I’m fully equipped with the necessary facts. So I sit, engine off, perspiration collecting in the stale air of the car, as the sun slides toward the horizon.

Eventually, the front door groans open, and I spot Patrick stepping out. Even from a distance, his tall frame is unmistakable. He hops into a battered pickup, the engine sputters, then he’s gone in a cloud of dust. My pulse quickens. This is my opening.

I ease out of the car, scanning the yard for movement. No dogs bark; no curtains shift in the windows. Still, I approach slowly. At the door, I knock, and my heartbeat thuds in my ears when I hear footsteps approach.

An elderly woman appears, a red hair bob hangs close to her shoulders, her face etched by lines of weariness and something else—maybe a restless pride. She eyes me with open suspicion.

“Ma’am,” I begin, offering a polite nod. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is John Hayes. I’m researching the Hawthorn family for a cold-case podcast I produce. I wondered if you might help me.”

Her eyes narrow, but she’s not slamming the door in my face. “Sweetie, you’re handsome which is the only reason I opened the door in the first place. But if you want me to understand what the hay you just said, you’re going to have too speak slower. What in the world is a cold cast?”

I smile warmly. “No, no, ma’am. A cold case podcast. It’s essentially a news program on the radio that tries to uncover new clues around old mysteries. I produce the program and was hoping to ask you some questions about the Hawthorn family, George and Cecilia?”

She hesitates, glancing past me at the empty yard, then gives a small sigh. Her gaze shifts, and a wry curve tugs at her lips—like she’s about to play a part. She adjusts a vivid purple shawl draped over her shoulders, stepping back from the threshold. “Well, I can’t say no to a radio show asking questions!” she says, an air of resignation coloring her tone. “Come on in.”

Inside, the house smells like old incense and heavy perfume. Bright, mismatched furniture crowds the living room, dust lingering in corners. Framed photographs are everywhere—faded Polaroids, decades-old certificates, newspaper clippings. It feels like a museum dedicated to a life she’s determined not to forget. Purple seems to dominate the décor, from the curtains to the cushions. She sinks onto a flower-patterned chair and gestures for me to sit across from her.

I settle gingerly, trying not to send up too much dust into the air with my weight. “Thank you for speaking with me. As I said, I’m diving into the Hawthorns and while it feels like I have a pretty decent understanding of Cecilia, I must admit, George is a harder character to nail down.”

“Ah yes, George was somewhat of an enigma, you see. I think in times like these, he would have been considered odd, maybe even weird. But back in the day,” she stares off, eyes glossing over, clearly deep in memory. “Phew, back in the day, George was the epitome of perfection. He had drive and class. He was book smart and didn’t take crap from anyone. He was a giver and provider for everyone in this town.” She looks back to me now before dropping her head towards her lap. Tears begin to fall and as she wipes them away, clumps of thick, clumpy foundation cling her hand. “I miss him very much.”

I lean forward, my nerves on fire. I don’t like the way this sounds.

“It seems as though many folks I’ve spoken with share your sentiment, ma’am. George Hawthorn sounds like a good man.” I say as a surprising new emotion bubbles inside my chest: pride. If this man was my biological father, sure he did leave me abandoned which is pretty shitty, but… it also appears like he was a really good man later in life.

The woman looks at me and nods with a humble, gentle smile, but says nothing more.

I’m close, this is my opportunity to get what I came for. But I also need to press gently.

“So, of the many folks I talked to in town, your son, Patrick was one of them.” I say causally, trying to monitor her response.

She stiffens a bit, her chin lifting. “Ah yes, Patrick is my boy. I’m sure he gave you a mouth full. He’s an opinionated one.”

I laugh to appease the joke and then draw a breath, bracing myself. “He, uh– he showed me some letters that he had found. Letters that he found… here.”